The human monster
by Ophelia Lake
Summary: WIP, teen'chester fic. Sam and Dean at an ordinary school, during an ordinary day. But Winchester luck never stays ordinary for long...
1. Chapter 1

AN: So I've started a new story. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13, that way they can be in the same school together. It is a WIP, so please review and it will inspire me to write and post faster. Thank you to Bartlebead for the beta, I really appreciate it! Oh and I also do not own Supernatural and anything associated with Supernatural.

**Chapter 1**

It should have been a day like any other. It had started out normal enough-for the Winchesters anyway. The early morning hours had found all three blurry-eyed from lack of sleep, reluctant to start the day, since their previous one had yet to end. An all night hunt for a wendigo over rough terrain, in freezing temperatures, had taken its toll. In the end the monster was ganked, various wounds were cleansed, stitched, and patched, and John Winchester was already researching the next hunt. The boys had trudged off to school, understanding that too many unexplained absences raised red flags, though they knew the lack of sleep and the throb of their wounds would be torture, even discounting the strain of struggling to stay awake in the classroom.

On the way to school Sam had been his usual bitchy self, complaining that the hunt was ruining his chance at an education and demanding to know why they couldn't be normal. Whatever that was anyway. Dean forgave him his crankiness; he remembered the look of fear in Sam's eyes as he loomed over Dean, pressing rags to his shoulder to staunch the flow of warm, sticky blood. The stench of burning wendigo had permeated the air, but Dean had seen nothing-known nothing-other than Sam. The injury hadn't been the worst he'd ever had, wasn't even life-threatening, but in that moment Dean had understood Sam and his fervent quest for normal. Routinely almost losing the only thing that mattered to you could drive a person crazy.

So here he was, when he'd rather be asleep, feeling the warped wood of the standard school desk dig into his aching muscles, pretending to learn about crap he knew he'd never need. If things had been different Dean imagined he would have been a passable student. He'd never have been the effortless brainiac that Sammy was, but Dean knew he'd have done alright. He knew where his strengths lay and in what areas his talent was unsurpassed. But since things weren't different, and reality was a bitch, Dean resented wasting his time listening to old Sternhull ramble on about algebra. Had the school offered a monster-ganking, gun-toting, bullet-assembling, knife-wielding class, Dean would have been the kid who screwed the curve.

He shifted again, hissing slightly, when his restless movement agitated the neat stitches his dad had put in his skin only hours before. It was almost 11 a.m. and Dean was running on empty. They had all been awake and hunting during the frosty night hours. Prior to that there had been talks of strategy, weapons cleaning, and Sam's homework. Dean's had lain forgotten as it did most nights, in between the dinner he'd prepared and the weapon he'd been cleaning. By the time the Winchesters had properly disposed of the body, seen to Dean's wound, and made it back to the current craptastic motel they were calling home, the dawn was already unfurling across the sky.

Sammy had been in full on bitch mode, running around grabbing his school things. Dean had seen no other choice but to suck it up and join him. Tuning back into the class, he rubbed his gritty eyes. He was so tired his skin felt crawly, like it was too tight and too loose at the same time. The back of his neck ached; a dissonant tingling ran up and down his spine. Shifting again, he let his mind wander. The rhythmic tones of the second hand on the clock above the door matched the tick under his right eye.

Jeez, he was freaking tired!

Laurie Middleton and Stacie Ames sat in the row ahead of Dean, their giggles soft as they passed notes back in forth. For a moment Dean imagined he was with the two of them, instead of here in this stupid class, but even the fantasy took more energy than he had currently, so he went back to staring at the clock.

Suddenly the door banged open, the sound loud and intrusive, interrupting the monotonous drone of algebra. Dean jerked to attention and felt his stomach fall to his feet. Framed in the doorjamb, eyes wild, stood Sammy. His brown hair, while never the most tidy, stood out in every which way. His chest heaved, with panic not exertion, Dean knew because Sammy was a card carrying member in the Winchester camp for survival. Sammy was scared, and it took a lot to ruffle a Winchester.

It took Dean less than three seconds to take in the information and cross the room to where Sam still stood. Over the teachers outraged demands about interruptions and hall passes, Dean made himself heard.

"What's wrong, Sammy?"

"We gotta go Dean; we gotta get out of here."

Figuring the worst, like dad was injured or CPS was on the way, Dean grabbed his brother by the shirt, and made ready to go. School wasn't important, his family was, and Sam wanted to leave. That was monumental in and of itself. Sam never wanted to leave, especially school.

Dean started to push his little brother out of the door, intending to follow him through, but that was when he heard the gunshots.

And the screaming.

In those first few seconds, time slowed down. He recognized the semi automatic by the sound of the shots, smelled the scent of fresh blood on the air. His fatigue was gone, his boredom shoved aside, and he ignored the lingering pain from his recent injury. He was a Winchester damnit, his father's soldier.

Keeping Sam safe was his number one directive and Dean vowed he would not fail.

AN II: Thanks again so much for reading, any reviews and tips on improving my writing will be immensely appreciated! See you next time.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Here is chapter two, thanks for reading, and for waiting for the update. Thanks to Bartlebead for the beta. I hope you all enjoy the story! Also, I do not own Supernatural.

**Chapter two**

Dean jerked Sam back inside and shoved him away from the door. He hit the lights, plunging the room into grayness, broken only by sporadic sunlight coming through the windows on the far wall.

"Somebody close those blinds."

Several students moved to obey the sharp words, unconsciously following the command in his tone. Dean gripped the heavy desk, shoving aside the teacher, who was frozen in shock. He heaved it against the door, effectively barricading them inside the classroom.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What's going on?"

"Was that gun shots?"

"Oh my God! We're all going to die!"

"Just like Columbine…"

It was pandemonium in the classroom now, students trembling under their desks, bunched in dark corners. The teacher was still standing by the door, mouth puckered in a silent "O" of protest, lips quivering like a guppy. Dean turned to Sam, who stood tense, next to him. He was stuck in a classroom with hysterical civilians, limited resources, and an unknown situation escalating on the other side of a very inadequate barrier. He needed information and he needed it now.

"Sam, what the hell is going on?" Dean stared fixedly at his little brother. When he got no response, he shook Sam's thin shoulder. "Focus Sam, just like it's any other job. Now, report."

Sam swallowed, and cleared his throat. He looked at Dean, eyes tortured and lost. "But it's not just any job Dean! Their humans! _Humans hurting, killing other humans." _

Dean made his voice hard and commanding, knowing Sam would respond to the blatant use of the conditioning put in place by John Winchester. "Details, Sam. Now!"

Sam made a visible effort to calm down. He said, "I had to go to the bathroom. I got a hall pass and as I was walking I saw eight men in ski masks enter in the front building."

Sam looked away for a moment –good, Dean thought. Sam was concentrating now.

"Go, on Sammy."

He looked back at his big brother. "They were armed. I saw handguns and semi automatics, sheaths with knives, walkie talkies on belts. They were in full gear, Dean! They were even wearing kevlar, all in black.

"Did they look like pro's to you?"

Sam nodded, "yeah, they looked professional. I crept back around the corner and then ran up the stairs for your room. Before I heard the first shots, though, just as I had started running, I heard one of them shout…" Sam's voice faltered and his tear filled gaze shifted to the floor.

"What did they say Sam," prompted Dean.

"Find the Winchester's. Kill the boy."

Oh, Jesus.

Inside, Dean reeled. All around them, people were getting hurt, maybe even dying, and it was all because of them. Then he registered the second part of what his brother had said. They were coming to kill Sam. Over Dean's dead body. Or more accurately, over their dead bodies, cause he'd murder anyone who tried to hurt Sam.

It had gone quiet in the room after Dean slammed the table against the door. The other kids must have been listening while Sam described what he had seen and heard.

"Wait, wait, wait. So all they want is you guys? Get the hell out there so we don't die. Have a conscious, man!"

Luke Turner, a senior on the soccer team, was suddenly talking loudly and standing belligerently in Dean's space. He had one hand raised like he was prepared to shove Dean and Sam to the slaughter. Laurie Middleton looked like she momentarily wanted to protest, but at the sounds of renewed gunfire she firmed her lips and looked away.

Mr. Sternhull stuck his head out from around his desk. "Quiet, all of you! We don't want to attract their attention." He made an agitated jerking motion with his hand before rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Now, get down out of sight."

The students complied, including Sam. Dean couldn't argue with the suggestion and crouched down next to his little brother.

"Now, does anyone have a working cell phone?" the teacher continued. Everyone dutifully reached into bags, pockets, and purses, all suddenly realizing they could communicate with the outside. There were many muttered curses and groans as each and everyone confirmed the loss of service.

"They must be blocking it, maybe a scrambler. What about the phone in the classroom?" said Dean. He looked over at the teacher, who raised up long enough to grab the phone off of the desk. He stretched the cord as he moved it, and resuming his previous position, lifted it to his ear. Mr. Sternhull cursed and set the receiver down with a bang, his frustration evident on his face.

"No dial tone," answered the teacher.

"A scrambler, what do you think this is X files?" It was the Turner kid mouthing off again.

Dean, temper fraying, running on adrenalin and not much else, turned and snapped at him.

"No, but what I do think is you need to shut the hell up so I can concentrate on trying to save your ungrateful ass, instead of listening to your whiny voice bitch, bitch, bitch." He didn't even realize he had taken several steps towards the sneering boy until he felt Sam grip his shirt, tugging him back.

"He's not worth it Dean. You're right, we need to save as many as we can. So, what's the plan big brother?"

"Gear check," said Dean simply. "What supplies do we currently have?" Dean grabbed his backpack, from where it had fallen earlier. Sam, however, rooted around in his pockets. Sam was the first to speak.

"I have my butterfly knife, holy water, and my lock pick set. Everything else is in my backpack back in my classroom." He looked forlornly at the door.

"Okay. I've got lock picks, my knife, holy water, the 45 and one extra clip. So at least we know where we stand weapon wise." Dean paused to think, ignoring the wide eyed looks from the students and teacher.

The teacher spoke up. "Young man, you better not be thinking of doing anything stupid. An attempt at misguided heroics will only get you killed."

Dean ignored him and stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans with an ease and familiarity that spoke of his experience. The classroom was on the second floor, all they had to do was open a window and climb out. He just needed to make a rope. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Dean looked around. It was February in the Midwest. Everyone had layers.

"Give me sweatshirts, flannel whatever you have that we could tie together, enough that we can climb out of the window." Sam started gathering the offered garments and soon he and Dean had tied enough together to create a suitable rope. Dean secured one end to the teacher's desk and then walked over to the closest window. He set the end of the rope down, intending to open the window very carefully, with Sam providing cover.

"Wait," said Luke. "Let me go first, that way I can steady the rope from the bottom and help guide the others down." Luke reached the window, bending to pick up the rope as he spoke.

"Hold on," Dean barked. "I haven't cleared the window. Just let me look and see first…"

"Jesus, get off your high horse, I'm gonna go down and help the others. Take a break, hero boy." As he spoke, Luke threw open the blinds and shoved open the window. With a careless smile he tossed the other end of the rope over the ledge. "See you on the other side."

At that moment, Dean saw the red light appear on Luke's forehead, even as his eyes narrowed in concentration, one leg already over the ledge.

"Sharpshooters," Dean breathed. Reacting almost instantaneously, Dean dove for the other boy yelling, "Get down, get away from the window!"

But he was too late, the bullet, fast, expertly aimed, and deadly pierced Luke's skull even as Dean was throwing himself to the ground and yanking on Luke's ankle to pull him from the window. The boy fell on Dean, showering him with bits of blood, bone, and brain. Amidst the screaming, Dean took a second to contemplate the turn of events.

"Well, shit," he sighed. "The windows out, now what?"

AN: Thanks again for reading, please review. Please, please, please! ( shamelessly begging)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So I am so sorry for the long wait in between updates. My computer died, taking along with it the completed chapters for this story. I found this chapter, finished, in my email but the others I will have to rewrite. Which is making me sad. So, if anyone is still reading, enjoy, and I'm working on it I promise. I don't own anything and reviews are always appreciated.

**Chapter Three**

Sam pulled Dean up, frantically patting him all over trying to find an injury. The sound Luke's body made when it hit the floor was a sickening wet plop. The boy's lifeless flesh continued to weep body fluids sluggishly all over the grey tile.

"Are you hit, Dean? God, I can't find it, I can't find it! There's too much blood! Where's the entry point?" Sam's voice was climbing higher as his hysteria grew.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's not mine." Dean pulled himself the rest of the way off of the floor, ignoring the cries, retching, and screaming of the others. His entire focus was on Sammy.

"It's okay, little brother," he repeated softly gripping Sam's shoulder. Green eyes stared into green eyes as Sam's agitated breathing slowly returned to normal.

"It's not mine," Dean repeated.

"Okay," Sam murmured. "Okay, okay, not yours."

Needing a moment to pull himself together, Dean turned and grabbed a coat. After a moment, he turned back and placed the coat over the empty space where Luke's face had been. Sammy didn't need to see it anymore, nor did the rest of the students, for that matter. They needed to focus on staying alive. The grisly sight taken care of, he made a dash for the sink at the back of the room, tore off a fist full of paper towels, and then ducked back down to the floor, where the shooters wouldn't be able to see him.

He made quick work of wiping his face clean of Luke's blood and gore. When he pulled a chunk of bone from his hair, he tried not to think about it too much. That gruesome task accomplished, it was now time to marshal the civilians, maybe do a little recon, and get the hell out of Dodge, before any more of his classmates got themselves taken out. He also needed to find a way to contact his dad; John Winchester would know what to do. He wouldn't lose any more innocent bystanders, and he sure as hell would eliminate the threat to Sammy!

He crab-crawled back to where the majority of the kids were huddled. Shock was setting in; he could read it on their faces. Some were crying, some were praying, some were just still and entirely too quiet. He imagined none of them had been exposed to this level of violence before outside of video games. At least the screaming had stopped -and the puking, too, because being enclosed with the smell of blood and vomit was really gonna suck.

"We need a plan."

Sam looked at him, eyes trusting, awaiting orders. Dean swallowed and plunged on.

"Windows are out, 'cause these guys are obviously trained shooters. The best bet to get the most accurate angle is the roof of the gym, so that's probably where the shooter is. And that means if we can get to the other side of the school, we can exit behind the science lab and make a run for the woods." He paused to make sure the others were looking at him, hearing him, because he intended to get everyone out.

"We know there are at least eight guys loose inside the school. We need to go slowly and carefully, try and avoid them, and get to the science lab." Some kids were nodding, and even the teacher looked ready to give over command.

"I'll take point. Sam, you're on backup. We'll clear an area, give the okay, and then you move in small groups as quietly as you can."

"If we say stop, you stop! If we say go, you go." Sam offered his two cents with the absolute efficiency of a tried-and-true Winchester.

"Absolutely," Dean affirmed. "Sam, you take the gun, I'll take the knife."

"But," Sam objected, "you're the better shot. _You_ take the gun."

Dean thought about their small cache of weapons, limited as they were. "Nah… you take the gun, no need for you to get close. Just make your shots count."

"But-" Sam tried again.

"Don't hesitate, only engage if you have to. If you have to shoot, aim for the head or heart."

Sam huffed and bit his bottom lip. "I know how to strategize, Dean. But these aren't freaks of the week, they're _people_!"

"We've already seen they're willing to kill innocent kids they don't even know." Dean was hesitant to remind Sam they were apparently gunning for him. "If it's you or them, Sammy…" He let the sentence hang, silently willing his brother to understand. Dean also planned to avoid putting his brother in that situation. He was good at taking targets down, excellent in hand-to-hand, even by John Winchester standards. But if something got past him, he needed to know Sammy would make the right call.

"Yeah, okay, Dean," muttered Sammy, as he palmed the gun and slid over the knife.

"Hey," asked one of the students. Dean thought his name was Tom or Steve or some shit like that. "Can we have weapons too?"

"Sorry, dude," Dean answered, letting his lips lift into a smile. "Me and Sammy here, we're the best weapons you got."

"It's gotten awfully quiet out there," mused Mr. Sternhull. "Maybe they've left?"

"No," answered Sammy. "They're too organized, too professional. They have a mission, a primary objective." Sam paused and looked over at Dean for agreement. "You don't cut tail and run when you have a job to do," he continued.

"So, if it's gotten quieter out there and they didn't find what they were looking for…"

"Two-man sweep," answered Dean and Sam simultaneously.

"It means," clarified Dean, "they'll be doing a room-by-room check, probably in teams of two."

The teacher looked at him. "How do you know that?" he asked, frowning.

Dean shrugged and said, "It's what I would do."

"Which means we need to move now, sooner rather than later," said Sam, already rising from his half-crouch to shuffle closer to the door.

Dean followed right behind Sam, holding a hand up to indicate the rest of the group should stay where they were. He put an ear to the door.

"Do you hear that?" whispered Dean.

"Yeah," answered Sammy. He started to rise to check through the glass pane in the door what was happening in the hallway, but Dean grabbed the back of his shirt and roughly pulled him down.

"Let me look first." Memories of Luke's exploded head at the last unchecked window made the bile in Dean's stomach rise and scratch at the back of this throat. ["tease" sounds too positive.] Sammy grudgingly acquiesced, but Dean heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "because you're so expendable."

Ignoring Sam, Dean peered through the corner of the window. He could see two men, expertly holding semi-automatics, several classrooms down, opening doors. He bit his lip. They were looking for them, Sammy specifically, and Dean knew he'd kill all of them before he let anything get to Sam.

The men were almost to the classroom. There wasn't much time to come up with a plan.

"Get back behind the desks and hide," he told the others. He was grateful to see them responding right away. "Sammy, there's two of them. Get into position over there in that corner, ready to cover me."

"What are you going to do, Dean?"

"I'm gonna see if I can get some answers."

Sammy opened his mouth to argue, but he never got the chance. At that moment they both saw the doorknob start to twist. The desk Dean had shoved up against prevented the door opening at first, but the intruder began to exert more pressure. Dean waited.

Come on, you asshole, he thought, I got some questions for you.

Slowly the door opened.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Sorry this took so long guys. I hope you enjoy the story. I own nothing but the mistakes.

Dean bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. His hands were clenched tightly into fists, the tense and curled fingers, a polar opposite from the loose limbed way he held his arms. It was the same on any hunt; clear your mind, focus on the objective, keep Sam safe.

He tried to envision his father at his side, ready to lead, to help with the fight. Briefly tried to see the forest full of dark crevices and hiding monsters instead of humans with guns and a death threat hanging over Sammy's head.

The door pushed in farther cutting off Dean's wayward thoughts. Time to focus, this is just any other hunt, his primary objective was always the same.

Protect Sammy, try not to die.

The door slid across the floor, the desk forced to move as well, the old wood whining loudly as it shuddered and groaned its protest at the awkward stilted movement. Dean was glad the desk took away some of the gunman's option for stealth. He saw the muzzle first, black and sleek. Had it not been aimed at him he might of thought it elegant, almost beautiful with its smooth and hard metal lines. As it was, he threw himself back into Sam, knocking the two of them down to the floor as the gun opened fire, bullets spraying in a wide arc across the classroom. Screams erupted again, harmonizing with the sound of broken glass and embedded bullets in the walls and wood.

Fucking cheaters he thought, gracefully rising to his feet and repositioning behind the door, out of the line of fire. Dean spared Sam a three second glance, just enough to ascertain his position. Sammy was behind him, like always, ready to back him up. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean hoped like hell, the rest of the civilians had followed his warning and stayed low, hopefully below the target line.

The muzzle of the gun entered the rest of the way, followed by a man in black Kevlar, head to toe. Only his eyes were visible. They were cold and empty.

"Winchester," he taunted his voice low and gravelly. "Come out, come out where ever you are." The man kicked a backpack out of his way, sending the blue Jan sport careening into a nearby desk. There was a startled yelp as the bag caused the desk to jolt into the student crouching behind. The man smirked and moved in the classroom a few more feet. "Dean-o, I know this is your classroom. I promise your death will be fast, one bullet to the brain Dean-o, nothing more. Sammy too."

Dean ignored the words and let him talk. The shooter advanced further into the classroom, his back now to Dean as he and Sam stood shrouded in the darkness, behind the half open door. The more he ran his mouth it seemed the more his guard went down. Dean was counting on the shooter's inner asshole being enough to give him an edge.

"Making me chase you, is really gonna piss me off. Maybe, make me use my knife on little Sammy, instead of the bullet. Wanna see Sammy's insides Dean?"

Dean itched to grab the gun from Sammy and ice the bastard, eliminate the threat in the quickest, simplest way. Except a single gunshot would differ in sound from the spray of the semi-automatic. It would alert the others to their location, and the luxury of taking down one gunman, only to be surrounded and defeated by the others would be a stupid move. So Dean bided his time and crept up slowly behind the shooter. This had to be done quickly and quietly.

Dean pushed the lingering thought away that he had never killed anything human before. The threat to Sammy was real. He tried to pretend they were werewolves, they always looked human. Holding the knife down at his side, his grip firm and ready, Dean stealthily crept even closer, barely breathing, ready to spring.

The man's muttered words were his only warning of his impending ass kicking.

"I don't think so kid." Fast as lightning the bigger man, whipped around and threw a freight train punch to Dean's head. The blow was solid and it sent Dean's ears ringing as his knees tried to buckle. His eye felt like it was on fire and he could feel the swelling start immediately. He forced his legs to stand and balled his fists. The man had the audacity to laugh.

"You gonna fight me kid? I was slitting throats and tossing skirts while you were a twinkle in your daddy's eye."

"Dude, did you not do your research." Dean coughed and spit blood to the side, trying to clear his head before he attacked. "My father never twinkled, and I'm a Winchester, damn straight I'm gonna fight you." Dean met the empty stare and stated firmly. "And I'm gonna win."

"Awful cocky huh," murmured the man but Dean was done with words and refused to rise to the bait. Instead he widened his stance and swung his fist in an arc towards the shooter's face. He wasn't actually expecting to land the blow, was counting on the man blocking it, and when he did Dean used the momentum of his body to shift the other way and knee the man in the crotch, hard!

There was a satisfying crunch as the man groaned and automatically and reflexively cupped himself. Using the moment of distraction, Dean grabbed a nearby chair and slammed it into the man's bowed head, driving him down to his knees. Then he took the handle of the knife still clutched tensely in his fingers and drove the blunt end up under the man's chin. Down for the count, the shooter fell back, unconscious.

"Dean," came Sam's hissed words as he made his way to his brother. "What are we gonna do with him?"

Before he could reply, Dean sensed rather than saw the shadow fill the still open entry way of the classroom door.

"Down," he yelled as he once again threw himself into Sam, trying to cover his brother's thin and coltish body with his own. He felt a searing numbness spread down his shoulder and into his fingertips. Must have grazed me he thought and sent up a silent acknowledgement of thanks that the bullet had only grazed his non-dominant side. Rising up, adrenaline fueling his actions, Dean crouched over Sam. He could see the new enemy stationed in the front of the classroom, gun razed, eyes just as cold as his predecessor. Without thinking Dean, drew back his arm and launched his knife, sending it sailing through the air, end over gleaming silver tip, until hurtling with a deadly accurate precision, it embedded itself into the chest of the masked man.

At the same time the gunman had managed to get off a couple more shots, each one growing progressively wider as his body struggled to adjust to the knife sticking 8 inches deep into his sternum. He fell back with a muffled thump and Dean rose shakily onto his feet. One of the bullets had hit him high above the graze, and he could feel the bullet sitting hot and deep against his collarbone, threatening to white out his vision and steal his resolve.

Dean forced himself to keep going. He needed to secure the room, take the weapons. He needed to save Sam. Dean swayed as he moved towards the door, his vision changing and swirling like the tilt-a-whirl at the fair, his stomach nauseas after too much cotton candy. Sammy's voice was far away, echoing in his ears. He needed to….he needed…

Without another conscious thought, Dean slid ungracefully to the floor. He needed to pass out.

And so he did.

AN II: Thank so much for reading! Reviews are loved and appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Hello, so I know I usually take much longer in between updates, and this is not my norm, but I had this almost done. So, here, my present to you all! Plus I have a really busy next couple of weeks so I don't foresee much writing time. I own nothing except the mistakes. Those I do own. Enjoy!

Dean floated somewhere between awake and unconsciousness, pain both his barometer and his guide. There was something he was supposed to do, something he desperately needed to remember, but the answers slipped through the cracks and crevices of his mind, nimble and fluid in their constant escape. The pain ebbed and swelled, like a wave cresting white and foamy against the rocky shores.

Sammy

The thought pierced the veil, sharp and insistent. He needed to check on Sam. Dean struggled to consciousness, fighting the darkened void. As he became more aware, the pain grew in intensity. What the hell had happened?

Memories and images played in short staccato bursts of picture and sound against the black backdrop of Dean's closed eyelids. It was making him nauseous, like he was held prisoner in a kaleidoscope and some kid was gripping it in his grimy hands and banging it against the ground.

Ohh wait, someone was shaking him. The grip felt familiar, and as Dean pried open his eyes, he found Sammy right where he was supposed to be; next to Dean. Samantha was leaning over him, more rags pressed against his newly bleeding shoulder, crying. The snot was dripping out of his nostrils and since gravity was a bitch, it fluttered, helpless in the wake of Sammy's heaving breaths until it lost the fight and plopped on Dean's chin.

Gross.

Dean groaned as the irony of once again laying bleeding from a shoulder wound twice in less than twenty four hours hit him.

"We gotta stop meeting like this, bitch" The words came out gravelly but at least Dean's mouth was working, he wasn't too sure yet about the rest of him.

"Shut up, Dean. It's not funny." Sammy didn't use the customary "jerk" in response, cluing Big Brother into just how frazzled he really was.

"So, how bad is it?" Dean put his game face on but inwardly he cringed. Yeah, it was his non-dominant hand, but if it felt like hamburger meat and looked like hamburger meat…

"I don't know Dean, you already had stitches from yesterday, then you got grazed, now shot. What are you going for the trifecta of death?" Dean was glad to hear the sarcastic snark snake into Sammy's voice, it meant he was coping… for now, and that was really all he could ask for.

"Chicks dig scars Sammy; you know how I gotta keep the ladies happy."

"Shut up," Sammy mumbled, as an afterthought he added, "jerk."

Dean hated lying down, hated being in any position of vulnerability, especially as he remembered the events of the morning and the shooters, both inside and outside the classroom. Sammy sensing Dean's irritation, helped to maneuver Dean into a sitting position. Sammy pulled his good arm and Dean wiggled his butt until, face pale and sweaty, pained gasps obstructed by clenched teeth, he finally rested upright back against the wall.

"Report Sam." Dean might have been injured but he caught the eye roll, even if Sammy's girl bangs half hid it from view. Sammy was tense and stressed, the eye roll was purely instinctual.

"One gunman deceased, one unconscious, one civilian causality that we know of." At this Sam visibly swallowed before shaking his head and moving on. "You have a bullet stuck in your shoulder and if my earlier count was correct there are still six gunmen loose in the school. Plus the sniper from the roof." Sam rubbed his head tiredly before continuing. "On the bright side, we have two more guns, plenty of ammunition, and a couple of really sweet knives. Not to mention, two walklie talkies…"

"… Now we can listen to them and know what their planning," Dean finished. Hey, he'd only seen Die Hard like a million times. Actually, maybe today would be perfect to use his favorite line, give him a bad guy and he'd give him a yippie kiyay m… uh ohh. Sammy was looking at him again with his bitch face. Dean forced himself to focus, damn blood loss.

Now that he was upright, Dean was able to survey the room. He saw kids sitting on the floor, some obviously shell shocked, others quietly crying. They seemed to be giving the Winchesters a wide berth, which never made sense to Dean. Saving the civilians made them heroes, shouldn't the civie's be grateful to them? But no, show any difference and automatically slide into the freak category. Sometimes, Dean couldn't wait to get out of high school, be a hunter full time.

Mr. Sternhull was sitting just next to Sam; he had a bowl full of water and fresh towels. Dean had to give the old guy credit, he was a sucky teacher, but at least he hadn't abandoned Sam to deal with everything by himself during Dean's siesta. Dean gave the guy a small smile hoping he'd get the message.

"Mr. Winchester, what are we to do with you? You had us all scared."

"It's okay Teach, we need to get moving cause when those guys don't report back in others will come to the last place they searched. We'll be like sitting ducks." Laurie and Stacy were sitting together, practically in each other's laps, and Laurie moaned at the thought of more confrontations with gunman. So, not the way he'd pictured them together and moaning, by the way.

Something was missing. Dean blinked to clear his eyes and looked around the room again.

"Sammy."

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Where are the bodies? Especially the guy who was only _unconscious_ and not dead."

"Ohh those bodies, I took care of it Dean. I'm not stupid you know."

Dean looked pointedly at his little brother and waited, glaring. Sammy huffed and blew his bangs out of his eyes, green bright and brilliant, underscored by dark shadows against pale skin. Sammy jerked a thin shoulder towards the back of the room.

"Mr. Sternhull and I dragged them into the supply closet. The non-dead guy I tied up with his own zip ties. I still got some left." Sam fished a handful of efficient looking zip ties out of his pocket to show Dean. "I took all their weapons and supplies."

Dean grunted as he shifted. "How did you secure the door Sam?"

"I tied the outer doors with zip ties and shoved a pencil in the lock, which I broke off there by jamming the lock." Sammy looked at Dean, his eyes shining proudly. Dean reached up to ruffle his hair, laughing when Sammy ducked his big head before Dean could land his hand.

"How very MacGyver of you, Sammy."

"Nah, how very Winchester of me," returned Sam his dimples flashing at the private in joke between the brothers, referencing the all and mighty John Winchester.

"So, just get me a pressure dressing for this shoulder and then we continue on with the plan. Down to the science lab and out the exit." Sammy nodded his head, tuning around to scuttle over to the desk and fish out tape. Several of the other students got on their haunches as well, it seemed like everyone was ready to leave.

Until the radio crackled to life.

"Whitmore, report."

AN II: Thank you very much for taking the time to read my story and continuing to put up with the long waits. Please, please, please review. I really would like to improve my writing and would appreciate all of your help in doing so! Thanks again!


	6. Chapter 6

AN I: Here is the next chapter, I had a heck of a time trying to figure out how to get them out of the classroom… I hope you enjoy it; it is un- beta'd so I apologize for the resulting mistakes. I don't own them, but I wish I did.

The classroom was silent, its captive occupants struck dumb and deaf, by the collective fear of more bullets and blood. Black and ominous against the pale skin of Dean's hand, the radio continued to crackle and hum with impatient demands; until it too went suddenly and viciously quiet.

"That's it people, we need to move now." Dean winced and bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as Sammy flew into a frenzy of action. He pressed a folded compress made out of rags against the still sluggishly bleeding wound in Dean's shoulder and then wound it tight with duct tape, pulling a pained gasp from between Dean's tightly clenched teeth. Dean didn't even want to contemplate where his ever resourceful brother had found duct tape.

He gripped Sam's waiting hand and allowed himself to be pulled up and unobtrusively steadied against Sam's shorter frame. His head swam, reminding him of his less than stellar blood volume. He fished around in his pockets until he found a half opened package of peanut m and m's. Dean shoved a handful in his mouth and chewed resolutely, despite the rolling nausea and dry-as-dust sensation in his mouth. He was hoping for a small measure of energy from the sugar. Speaking of, he tapped Sam on the shoulder and shoved the remaining package into his clammy hand.

Taking the offering for what it was; purely soldier emergency rations, Sam shoved a handful in his mouth as well, chewing even as he began talking.

"Okay, guys. Stand single file by the door," advised Sam. "Only take what you absolutely need and what could be used as a weapon." At this Sam saw some students shove sharpened pencils into their pockets and Mr. Sternhull grabbed his letter opener off his desk.

"We need to move quickly and quietly and more than likely in small groups." Dean coughed and scratched his head, shoving deft fingers through the short spiky tips of his hair. "Sammy and I'll clear the way first and then motion you guys over."

"Don't panic," added Sam

"Don't be loud," cautioned Dean.

"Seriously, can we go now? I don't want to die," whined a shrill voice from the back.

"Yeah," nodded Dean decisively. "Just remember, don't separate and listen to us. The goal is to get to the science lab; down and out, head for the woods."

Several students, including Mr. Sternhull, voiced their assent and one by one, moved for the door.

Dean swallowed, gritted his teeth and then utilizing the iron will forged and molded by John Winchester, pushed away from Sammy's support and once again took the lead. He listened at the door, from the side, peering cautiously through the textured glass. Although, his view was distorted, Dean was fairly sure he didn't see any large dark moving shapes.

Better bite the bullet and just go, he thought, otherwise we'll be here all day like sitting ducks.

Gingerly, Dean pushed the door open and then quietly stepped out into the hallway. He stayed pressed close against the wall and slid against it as he moved, arms held out and ready in front of him. Sam moved behind him; close yet far enough away that both of their movement would be unrestricted.

Dean knew, realistically, he was in rough shape but the part of him that was Sammy's big brother, John Winchester's perfect soldier, couldn't let Sam take the lead. As good as he was Sammy was only 13 years old. Nope better for Dean to be in front, take as many hits as he could withstand. At least if he passed out later, Sammy would be fresh and could focus on saving himself.

Dean made it to the end of the hallway and paused at the junction of the adjoining hallway. They needed to make the turn and follow the faded linoleum all the way down passing by multiple classrooms to make it to the stairway.

He could hear stifled breathing behind him, hitching steps, and bitten lips. The fear emanating from his classmates was palpable, heavy and thick in the air. The hallway loomed, long and deserted, abandoned classrooms with open doors punctuated by blatant bullet holes and fallen bodies.

The thought that it wasn't supposed to be like this kept pushing through the fractured cracks in his focus, as he led the others over and around their fallen students. Monsters should be monsters, fur, fang, scales, and slime. But this was a war Dean had never fought and underneath all of his training and bravado he felt ill prepared to deal with the scope of evil specific to that of humans.

Dean knew that the life of the Hunter was rough and wild; dark and edgy. Was there someone in their past they had angered to cause this? Why would professional soldiers, hit men, be after him and Sammy? Sure, the Winchesters bent the laws more often than not, skirted the broken edges of society, but they _helped _people.

Shouldn't that count for something?

"Dean," Sammy hissed, breaking the flow of concentration, sending his thoughts and ideas tumbling around Dean's head like a pinball machine with a broken lever.

"What," he responded jerking his head around to find Sammy's pinched face behind him. Sammy raised a hand and pointed at the row of lockers next to Dean's head. He pointed one shaking finger at the grate on the front of the peeling faded red locker.

"Sulfur, look."

Dean let his eyes follow the direction of Sam's finger. On the grate right above his head lay the ominous yellow substance.

He swallowed, feeling a ball of lead settle in his stomach. On one hand, if demons were involved then this was a supernatural situation and that put Dean back on more familiar ground. On the other hand, he and Sammy had never faced a demon before. Their father had always been adamant that if the boys ever found evidence of one, they back away, and tell him immediately.

But the men he'd fought back in the classroom weren't demons, they hadn't been possessed.

"Dean."

Sam's voice was worried and tense, looking for the reassurance only Dean could provide. With his injuries, Dean was finding it hard to focus. He nodded once and then faced the sea of anxious faces waiting to follow his lead to safety.

"Don't worry, Sammy. Nothings gonna get you as long as I'm here." Dean clasped Sam's shoulder once and then addressed the group. "The plans stays the same, let's move!"

Dean pushed forward again, slowly, eyes scanning for anything he needed to put down. He and Sam each had a gun now, and he held his in front of him, capable and ready. Suddenly he tensed, muscles held rigid, barely breathing.

A shadow ghosted on the wall, originating around the corner, coming from the very stairwell Dean and his rag tag group of survivors were headed to.

Dean held up a fist indicating the others to stop and find shelter in the vacated classrooms. He could hear them behind him scattering like dirt washed away by the rain, and not for the first time he wished he could silence the twenty odd bodies he was now responsible for. Fear made them heavy and the sounds bounced off the walls, each one like a tick on the timer to a dirty bomb.

Tick, tick, boom!

Shrugging his shoulders slightly, Dean ignored the others and took aim at the opening to the stairwell. He could see Sammy out of the periphery of his vision and knew he did the same.

The shadow grew in height, equally disturbing for its lack of sound as it was for its presence. He saw the hair first, shaggy and dark, followed by the familiar leather and plaid. Training demanded he not lower his weapon, the presence of sulfur only strengthened that instinct. But it didn't stop the grateful surprise from leaking into his voice, causing it to tremor and shake like Sammy's in the middle of a puberty driven crisis.

"Dad?"

AN II: Thank you so much for taking the time to continue to read my story. Next up, we get some Daddy Winchester. If you are so inclined, please review! I would love to hear from you!


	7. Chapter 7

AN I: Hello all and Happy Easter! I own nothing except the mistakes! Please review, I love hearing from you! Happy reading…

Dean swayed, feeling his center of gravity plummet down to the floor. John , and God did Dean hope that really was his dad, reached out instinctually to steady him but held his hands still at Dean's panicked jerk.

"I know you're being cautious son, and that's the right thing to do; normally. But we gotta hump it out of here and we don't have time for games." His father's voice was the same as it always was, rough and deep. It reminded Dean of smoky bars and smooth amber whisky. He wanted to give in and let his dad take over, he hurt and he was tired; and loath as he was to admit he was terrified.

But he had to be sure. Sammy and the civilians were his responsibility.

Behind him, still scattered in small quivering groups, the survivors stood caught in perpetual flight or fight; no one knew whether this was a threat or a savior. And again they were looking to Dean for the answer. Sammy was by his side, hope battling the ingrained soldier on his exhausted features. But he didn't move and he already had the knife and holy water in his upturned palm.

"Dean," growled his father, "we're in mixed company and…"

"You know the drill, this or a bullet," warned Dean the bravado making his voice shake even as he held the gun steady in his sweaty hand.

Sam grabbed the flask and tossed it one handed to his father. John caught it deftly out of the air, resignation and pride raising one dark eyebrow and swept his gaze over the confused and fearful faces watching him, as he unscrewed the lid and tossed a generous mouthful back.

"Done, anything else, or can we get the hell out of here?"

Dean watched his dad closely, looking for any smoke or black eyes. Satisfied there were none, he then took the knife from Sammy. He needed to do this last part, no way was he letting Sammy get close if it might not be their dad. Seeing no other option for handing the knife to John and still maintaining his safe distance, Dean slowly shuffled forward. He gripped the pure silver blade by its handle, forcing John to take it blade first.

He did and swiftly and efficiently cut his palm. Red drops of honest-to-god John Winchester DNA dripped out, and with each kerplunk on the dirty floor, Dean felt the relief course through him, stealing strength from his legs and quickening his breath.

Just as Dean was about to crash to the floor John tugged him up with one twist of his jacket, and steadied him against the lockers. "You did good, son. But I'm here now. Suck it up, shove it down, whatever works, but this isn't done and we're still in hostile territory." Dean felt his face flush at the gruff reprimand and straightened his spine.

"Yes sir."

Sammy, having watched the interaction with hooded eyes hissed, "he's injured Dad." He stared at John disapprovingly.

Here we go again thought Dean. John and Sam stared each other down, a battle of will neither seemed able to back down from; and Dean, in the middle, feeling like a chick in a skirt as he fought the urge to wring his hands at the turmoil.

"Now's not the time, Sam," barked John.

"It's never the time," mumbled Sam but he obediently if not grudgingly backed down and averted his gaze.

"Ummm," interrupted Mr. Strernhull, "I don't know what is going on but we can't stand here in the middle of the hall. There are armed men and I have my class with me."

"Right," responded John all business. He turned to his eldest. "Report Dean."

"8 men, armed and dangerous, and a sniper on the roof of the gym. We took two down in the classroom and left them in the closet," he smirked. "After relieving them of their weaponry and walkie talkies."

"I took out three on my way to find you." Dean noticed his father didn't elaborate on where he stashed the bodies. "So three left in the school."

"And the sniper," pointed out Sam.

"What was your plan," asked John.

"Down by the science lab, out the exit, escape and evade in the woods." Dean fought a wave of dizziness and unconsciously swallowed his mouth dry as dust. Sammy noticed, always in tune with Dean, and moved closer offering up his body as support. John, however, wasn't even looking at the boys. Instead he was checking weapons and talking quietly to Mr. Sternhull.

The two men had moved slightly over to the side away from the gathered students. Dean wanted to know what his father was discussing, but the weakness in his depleted body kept him pressed against the lockers. John nodded once more and then walked over, his expression grim.

"The way you were headed should be mostly clear," as John addressed the group he stood tall and unyielding, every inch the commanding officer despite his scuffed work boots, faded leather jacket, and thickened stubble marring his face. "Keep going into the woods, hide, stay together. Mr. Sternhull will lead you." Several students looked as if they wanted to protest, their eyes frantically shifting over to Dean and Sam, not wanting to leave the tenuous safety the boys had represented. John's face was granite and as usual his word was law.

Dean watched as the students mobilized behind Mr. Sternhull.

"Wait," Sammy walked over to his father. "Dad we can't let them leave unprotected, that's like leading them to the slaughter." He looked back at Dean, large green eyes begging imploringly at his brother to make it all right.

"If we weren't here, they'd muddle through just fine on their own," shot back John.

"If we weren't here, none of this would be happening," returned Sam.

John ran a hand though his hair roughly, showing the first sign of agitation Dean had seen since his timely arrival. "You can't know that Sammy."

Sam narrowed his gaze. Dean could see him gearing up for another epic brawl; Winchester vs. Winchester.

"At least give them a couple weapons dad," offered Dean. This is hunting country. I'm sure some of them have fired a rifle before."

Relenting, John turned and addressed the group again. "Who knows how to fire a weapon?" Two students raised their hands, looking green but determined.

"I've gone duck hunting with my grandpa," said one of the boys as he stepped around the group. He gripped the gun John held out and then nodding to himself, stepped to the front of the line. John armed the second student and Dean and Sam watched as the fates of their self-appointed charges were suddenly taken out of their hands.

The group moved slowly and cautiously down the stairwell until they disappeared from sight. John turned to his sons.

"We've stood here long enough; in the open we're compromised." He ushered the boys into a vacated classroom and barricaded the door before he gestured to Dean to stand before him. John took down the dressing, studying the wound and its sluggish bleeding with a detached clinical eye. "I need you in full form son, I brought the quick clot."

Awww hell, thought Dean.

Although, he knew it was necessary he also knew it was going to hurt. He gritted his teeth, sat in the nearest chair, and then jerked his head at his father giving his assent. Sammy, having seen this particular brand of emergency field medicine, moved closer to Dean, trying to offer whatever form of comfort his brother would accept.

John looked Dean in the eyes briefly and then dumped the silver powder on the wound in his shoulder. Dean went ridged and white. He bit through his bottom lip trying to hold in the screams that were jack-knifing through his skull. As the painful waves began to recede Dean heard John address Sam.

"Any other wounds need tending," he asked gruffly.

"No sir," came the quiet reply. Dean could hear the tears in Sammy's voice, knowing Sam allowed himself to give voice to the pain Dean could never show.

"Okay," murmured John. He wiped his hands on his jeans and then cleared his throat. "Well, I need you boys to stay here. You've got plenty of weaponry. I'll do a sweep and clear the remaining mercs then come back for you."

"No sir."

"Excuse me, Dean," growled his father, the steel in his voice making the room feel 10 degrees colder.

"I said no sir. The best place is for Sammy and me is to stay with you. I can't protect him by myself like this."

Sam gave an indignant snort, but Dean carried on.

"Their humans Dad, we don't even know why they're here, what they want."

'We know they want to kill us," interjected Sam. Dean elbowed him in the ribs before turning to face his father again.

"I know you want to hunt these bastards down, get answers, me too. But retreat is the best tactical plan right now." Dean looked at his father, tried to see his dad, struggled to not see only the soldier. "We need to get Sam safe. Sooner or later, cops gotta show, that means CPS. We gotta book, Dad."

Dean could see the need for revenge warring with the practical nature of his words in his father's sharpened gaze.

"Nobody messes with my family, not now, not ever again," he swore darkly. Then he closed his eyes, setting aside the hunt Dean knew.

Grabbing each of the boys, John pulled them close for a moment, reassuring himself that even wounded they were alive and fighting.

"Let's go boys," John said. His lingering hand on Dean's uninjured shoulder his only acknowledgment of the truth of Dean's words. Each Winchester gripped a weapon and then moved out into the hallway.

AN II: Thank you for reading! Each and every review means so much to me. I cherish every one!


	8. Chapter 8

AN I: Thanks for reading, this story is now complete. I hope it answers some questions and satisfies y'all. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope to see your reviews!

The school was deathly quiet. If there were students left in the building, hopefully they were out of the way and hiding. But not Dean and Sam, no the Winchesters were moving stealthily through the deserted hallways, familiar guns gripped in competent hands, warrior eyes trained ahead, watching every shadow.

Three shooters and a sniper, Dean reminded himself. Four human obstacles potentially between Sammy and safety. Not to mention, whatever demonic presence was here, given the evidence of sulfur from back by the lockers.

Dean shivered and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat as he stepped around the fallen form of a teacher. He was a math substitute from the east wing, Dean hadn't even known him. He looked like he'd just fallen where he'd stood, a cheap shot, between the shoulder blades. Poor guy hadn't even had a chance.

"Dean," hissed Sam, nudging him with his foot. Dean hadn't realized he'd stopped, the blood loss was effecting him more than he could afford to let it. Thankfully Sammy had alerted him before John noticed his perfect soldier falling off point. He flashed a tired smile at Sammy and was rewarded by a brief glimpse of dimples before his brother fell behind to cover his six.

It irked Dean raw that Sam was covering him, he hated to have Sammy in any position of vulnerability. But it had been decided, and rightfully so, that with Dean less than full fighting form Sam would take the back.

Dean knew his innocence was gone, his childhood up in the same flames which burned Mary Winchester to death. But Sammy…..even with the life they lived, Sammy still believed in better things. Rainbows, and puppies, and fairytales, all that shit cause Sammy was just that kind of kid. And Dean didn't want Sammy to lose that, it was why he ran point as often as he did, and fought John to have Sam research more, off the front lines.

But Sam was still a damn Winchester, and Winchesters were soldiers, even if one of them still slept with a night light.

Dean shook his head to clear it and refocused on the mission.

Both boys stopped as John Winchester held up one arm, listening intently, head cocked to one side, finger on the trigger.

They didn't have to wait long.

Their father gave a surprised grunt as a body ripped itself out from the shadows and catapulted, launching an iron grip around John's middle. Even as he went flying, John fired a shot, hitting the merc point blank in the chest.

The gun for hire kept coming, he didn't even slow down at the impact of the bullet.

The oldest Winchester brought his weapon up and around, ready to fire again, but his center was already thrown off, and he hit the floor with dull thud. The Mercenary, seemingly weaponless, brought both hands up around John's throat, tightening his gloved fingers, effectively cutting off John's air supply.

Dean growled and aimed the gun in his hands, willing his arms to stop shaking with strain and muscle fatigue. He squeezed the trigger, like he had a million times before, and the shot went wide, missing the target entirely.

Dean never missed, even inured. His jaw slackened in shock even as he efficiently re sited and prepared to shoot again. But Sammy was quicker.

John was making awful noises, harsh in the empty hallway, throat squeezed, oxygen deprivation setting in. He'd somehow lost his grip on his gun, but he'd found his knife and was using it to slash into the soldier trying to kill him repeatedly. The knife made a sick wet sliding sound, over and over, but still the assailant managed to continue to strangle John. Sammy knew Dean was pushed past his last reserves and father was dying in front of him. The fact that the monster was human registered in the back of his mind, but he shoved it aside, swallowed down the rising bile burning his tongue…..and fired. The sound the bullet made when it entered the man's head was louder and quieter than any sound Sam had ever heard. The soldier slumped down on John, blood coating his father's front as John shoved the man off, dragging in ragged puffs of oxygen through his swollen and damaged airway.

Sam stumbled, hit his knees, and threw up everything he'd eaten that day. He'd just killed a man. What kind of monster did that make him? Even if it was to save his father; that man had still been somebody's son. And Sam…..Sam killed him.

Sam didn't even hear Dean come over or wrap his arms around him. Dean jerked Sam up, threw his limp arm over his shoulder, and together they made their way over to John. Their father was rolling over on all fours, trying to push himself up, while the urgency of the situation weighed down heavy and oppressive over them all.

"Sammy," Dean's voice sounded like it was coming from a long tunnel, echoed and far away. From the sound of the freaked out annoyance coloring his normally unflappable brother's tone, Sam guessed he'd been saying his name a lot.

"I think he's in shock Dad, he doesn't seem to be hearing me."

"Go son, give him to me, we got to hump it out of here, now. Something's not right."

"Not right Dad, like a school shooting not right? Or something else?" Dean's voice was sarcastically brittle as Sam felt his weight being shifted between the two men."

"It didn't go down, Dean. Not my bullet, or the knife."

"It did when Sam shot it, between the eyes, one shot."

"I killed him, Dean. I killed a man, a human. I did…." Sam was babbling now, like water over rocks, he could hear himself, but he couldn't stop. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was hysteria.

"It's okay, little Dude," whispered Dean gruffly, "it was a monster, nothing more, nothing less."

Sam didn't respond, just shut his eyes. He swallowed, once, then twice before he shakily moved to stand on his own two feet. He'd killed a man, he didn't deserve for his big brother to comfort him. "We need to go, right? I can walk and we're wasting time."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but John nodded once in approval, and the group began making cautious strides to the exit.

"So two mercs and a sniper left," whispered John, his voice strained and weak. "Stay alert boys."

It was Dean who noticed the bodies first. There were two men, in black Kevlar, sitting side by side, against the far row of lockers, necks broken. Their weapons were still in their limp hands.

"What in the hell," murmured Dean. He watched as John bent over, lithe grace even after almost dying, and checked their wallets and pockets.

"No identification papers, no wallets, nothing except extra ammo….and pictures of you boys."

"Well…..isn't that special," remarked Dean trying to mask how much that one simple fact gave him the heebie jeebies. Sam remained uncharacteristically silent. "So….no mercs now and one sniper," questioned Dean.

"I don't know," groused John. "If the count was right, then we should just be down to the sniper. Either way we can't be here when the authorities come, this can't fall back on us." Dean agreed and they started moving again.

The walk across the grass to the car was the worst. Dean felt like he had a rifle pointed at his back the whole time, who knows maybe he did. But they made it to the car without further incident. John and Dean bundled Sam into the backseat, and peeled rubber away from the scene. When they got far enough away, dean used the burner and placed an anonymous 911 phone call.

Sam didn't make any noise in the back, no tears, none of his normal antics and arguments. Just stony silence and vacant looks.

So, this is how his childhood dies, thought Dean.

Yellow eyes had been having the best time. He'd possessed several guns for hire, killed some innocent people, and toyed with the Winchesters. After all his plan was coming along nicely, and this was only the beginning stages. He had such _ideas._

He still wore the body of the sniper, his mind had been fun to crack. Just for shits and giggles, Azeazle had make the man kill his family before they'd left to go Winchester hunting. The man's soul had cried the whole time. It was such a…delicious sound.

Yellow eyes had killed the last two buffoons himself. Once the boy had taken a life, the game was pointless. Sammy needed to _marinate_ a little longer before he was ready, although it tickled him to no end that he would be the one to put all of John Winchester's good training to use. Breed your little soldier for me Johnny, I know just where I can stick him.

Maybe, he'd have him kill Dean-o, just for the final test. But that wouldn't come for much later.

The boy had to be prepared after all. And now he had blood on his hands. Playing with Dean's gun, forcing Sammy's hand, well that had just been a stroke of genius. With any luck, little Sammy would suffer pangs from his conscience and distance him from Dean-o all by himself.

Angry isolated boys always made the best future leaders of demon armies.

AN II: Thanks for reading. I hope this tied up the story for everyone. I'd appreciate any thoughts you'd like to tell me.


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